Oh it's terrible writing here. It's my last few days at the rut -- and frankly I don't know why I'm still coming. They seem to have accepted, and come to terms with my announcement. I think my lot will miss me. We've cribbed for so long, I suppose this had to happen. I'm just taking a couple of days to wind up.
The desk seems to be thinning with people. Some more people are threatening to exhibit their frustrations, and also find an exit.
I'm on the morning -- and that's perhaps the best shift to have been on. In a few days it wouldn't even matter. A year back I had got the offer -- then last March things changed drastically. And I suppose that has been one of the biggest determinants of leaving.
I don't blame them, in this terrible corporate world -- such shit hits the fan. I don't know who flung it in the first place. But does it matter. Everyone's now in their respective corners, and each to their own.
But there's some stillness in this room while I write. There's a picture -- that collects the remnants of obscurity and turns it into some lesson. You can call it life or something textbookishly similar.
I'M NOT THERE.

The war is over. Both lost. But the world is not coming to an end. Too many corporates around. So I'm out, out and out. You see I was in the hedge taking a leak when the war broke out. When I finished my cigarette, it was all over.
I've been good. Back from the hills. Spent six quick days in perfect lonliness. Watched the angry clouds, broken rain, smoked eight smokes with a tight budget of a few matches and damp matchboxes.
You'd be surprised, I was, I read a paperback after a hectic decade (last was the The Godfather, I suppose). A Prisoner of Birth by Sir Jeffrey Archer, and I just thought I'll tell you that he writes like a movie. A decent read and I'd suggest you have a try if you're not too political. Apart from that JD Salinger's nine stories -- which are quirky, but then when I was the best judge for short stories.
Which reminds me. I need to get the book in place. A few evenings back, and I was at Amitav Ghosh's launch of Sea of Poppies. I was a bit lousy. But I head my way there. Vaz, Idiot, Mad-hur were there, besides them there was the old lit-lot, old faces, and besides that the rest of the world we see but don't meet.
I played safe, drank beer, quite amazing though as I got some fantastic help from Duck. Duck was probably bored, but he sorted some issues out. And then offered some literary advice. Ink Man was there. And things like always, on other people's alcohol of course, things get blorred, so they closed the bar and we were out to hit the Beer Bar.
Things are well. I miss you. You look away. So I'm going to hide.

Life gets hectic dear brothers and careless sisters. So much happens -- that it gets a bit difficult to fill in all here. Besides it happens in such a flash, that to quibble more is a bit pointless.
What can I say? It's all over a baby blue. Well that's what it seems. Nothings confirmed, a lot of sweet tooth-fillings and promises. This comes after an episode day before of an hour long of quizzing and finally giving me shit stuff to rewrite by hand (aren't we in the effing 21st century, assholes?)
And when you got nothing, you got nothing to lose. So I'll be leaving with a stolen necklace of broken promises, crushed ego, dead flowers, hopes and fears, sweet angels, dark angels, good assholes, bad assholes, tears and peers, and a hope that everything burns to dust. But this is the way I had planned it, the phantom of the opera stumbling on the doorstep of the green room.
And most of all it would be an escape.
But how would it matter -- more distant are we now.